“Was he the one who taught you to use it?”
“No, I taught myself with practice. My father doesn’t use a weapon. Not a physical one, anyway. He uses his influence to get himself out of situations, and he has other demon spirits who watch his back.”
“Have you ever needed to use it?”
“A few times.” His tone was flippant, like it was no biggie. “Only flesh wounds. No need to kill anyone. That’s not my sin.”
He winked at me and whipped the blade closed. Time to change the subject.
“Were you scared when your senses started getting crazy?” I asked.
He rolled to his back and rested his head in his hands, crossing his ankles.
“Scared? No, but I knew it was coming. I take it you did not.”
I shook my head and he continued.
“My father was all but nonexistent my first five years, but he came home for a week before I turned six to explain ‘the extraordinary changes that would set me apart from humanity.’” He mocked his father’s serious tone. “He taught me how to control each sense and use them to my advantage over humans. I learned fast. I wanted to... please him.”
“And did you?”
He grimaced up at the ceiling. “If I did, he never told me. But when I turned thirteen he began staying home more, taking an interest in my involvement in his work. I took it to mean he was proud. I felt useful.”
“So, before he came back around, did you have a nanny or someone who raised you?” I imagined a Mary Poppins type singing to him and showing him gentleness.
“I had many nannies, but they were all preoccupied with thoughts of my father. He made sure of that. None of them stayed for more than a year, six months on average. When they became too overbearing, they were replaced. He bores easily.”
So much for a spoonful of sugar. I felt a familiar anger at the thought of Kaidan’s father: the same anger I felt toward my own father. Kaidan looked in my direction.
“You really should try to control your emotions.”
I couldn’t get used to the fact that someone could see my colors.
Kaidan’s phone beeped again. I gave it a stare filled with loathing and he grinned at my expression.
“Would you like me to turn it off?” he asked.
“Yes, please. Otherwise it’ll be going off all night.”
“Quite right,” he said, turning it off with a chime sound and putting it on the nightstand. “Which is your favorite sense, little Ann?”
Ann. He’d called me by a nickname. That shouldn’t have warmed me so, but it did.
I focused on his question. My senses hadn’t been something I’d ever considered enjoyable, certainly not worthy of ranking for favoritism. It was hard to get past what a painful burden they’d been in the beginning.
“The smells can be really nice,” I said. “Until you get a whiff of skunk or something. Um... the sight is useful, getting to read signs from so far away and stuff.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “You never use them, do you?”
“Not very often,” I confessed. “I like to pretend I’m normal.”
“Why?”
I shrugged, intimidated by his confidence.
“You didn’t mention your sense of touch,” he said.
“Ugh, no. But let me guess—that’s your favorite.”
He climbed off his bed with graceful movements and came to sit next to me. I scrambled to sit up, but he put a hand on my arm.
“No, stay lying down. I want to show you something.”
I eyed him with suspicion and he laughed.
“Calm down, luv.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing that will compromise your virtue and have Patti hunting me down. Now close your eyes.”
I huffed a little, but I was curious. Maybe he could show me something useful. I set my hesitation aside, lying back and closing my eyes, but stayed ready to move if necessary.
“Now, I want you to relax and concentrate on your sense of touch. I’ll be a good boy. I promise.”
Just an exercise to build trust, right? Oh, what the heck?
I took a deep, calming breath and pushed out my physical sense from within me. Scalp. Neck. Shoulders. Tummy. Back. Hips. Thighs. Calves. Ankles. Toes. All tingling.
I felt the tiny grooves of thread crisscrossing in the fabric of my cotton shirt and jean shorts. The motel comforter was scratchy with thousands of polyester prickles. Stray hairs from my ponytail tickled my temples and neck. And then, oh! I sucked in a breath, but managed to keep my eyes closed as one warm fingertip pressed into the palm of my hand. I concentrated on it.
“I can sense your fingerprint!” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. He lifted his finger from my palm, and a second later my foot was in his hands, throbbing with sensitivity. His fingers moved each little toe between them with the perfect amount of pressure so it wouldn’t tickle, moving on to the pad of my foot, arch, and heel, all neglected muscles that sang at the divine attention. He moved up and my ankles reveled under his sculpted hands.